


Facets

by VolceVoice



Series: Ones and Ones (and Ones) [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, And Ones, And Other Ones, Asexual Character, Brotherhood, But Whom?, But not Aromantic, Confusion, Dom/sub Undertones, Dwalin is Courting a Ri, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Jealousy, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, No Incest, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Pre-Hobbit, Romance, dwarf ones, no infidelity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-17 23:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3547937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolceVoice/pseuds/VolceVoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin is spoiled for choice:  Ori for sweetness, Nori for excitement, and Dori for . . . well.</p>
<p>How on Middle Earth is he supposed to figure out which Ri brother Mahal meant for him?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>In which Dwalin and the Ri brothers learn that there are Ones and Ones.  And Ones.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rivendell

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, my strange take on Dwalin's courtship was supposed to be a kind of mysterious, tacit subplot to his brother's romantic troubles in Courting by Contract. 
> 
> But then details were added (Dori likes things just so) and things became complicated (because Nori went and developed _feelings_ ) and my simple subplot turned into its own multi-faceted story (Ori insisted).
> 
> And I asked if anyone wanted to read it and everyone who answered said yes.
> 
> So . . . here.

_Later, when Balin asked how it had all happened, there were so many facets to consider that Dwalin honestly couldn’t remember the order in which they’d begun to shine._  
  
_But Nori . . . Nori was first.  And, all things considered, Ori was probably third._

_Dwalin himself had been last._  
  
_But Dori . . . Dori first shone in Rivendell._

 

###

 

Dwalin had met Nori years before the Retaking of Erebor, if met was the right word, and because of those encounters, he’d learned something of the Ri family. Most of what he knew had been second-hand from the other guards, as it seemed the brothers of the most talented thief in the Blue Mountains were as law abiding as he was not, and Dwalin had been too busy chasing one all over the damned city, and under it, to pay much attention to the other two.

He’d caught sight of Dori once, though, in the guardhouse, paying a fine that would allow Nori to show his face in Ered Luin without dire consequences. Dwalin had agreed with the other guards’ open admiration of the strikingly beautiful, magnificently irritated dwarf, even as he’d glared into silence those whose comments had turned disrespectful; his manners might be rougher than his brother’s, but no son of Fundin—or Gísla—would give offense in such a way.

Though he had made a special point of mentioning his appreciation to Nori the next time he’d nearly run him to ground.

The thief’s reaction had been surprising, dangerous, gratifying, and game changing.

Dwalin hadn’t met Ori until the young dwarf had approached Thorin to request a place in the company. He’d thought the pretty scribe to be sweet, young, and far too soft to survive the journey—let alone a dragon—until Dori had arrived to put a stop to it.

Ori’s stubborn side had immediately reared up and held its own against a protective older brother who had _lifted the stone table with one hand_ to move it out of his way. The argument, Balin said later, had been the perfect illustration of an irresistible force meeting an immoveable object.

And then Nori had showed up to put in his two silver.

For once in his life, Dwalin had hesitated to break up a fight, in case he hurt the youngest, was crushed to a pulp by the oldest, or laid inappropriate hands on the middle brother, whose obvious concern for his family made him nearly irresistible.   Eventually, Thorin had resolved the matter through Royal edict expressed at top volume and the Ri family had signed their contracts.

And then Dwalin had dragged Nori away for the most intense, volcanic experience of his life to that point, followed by an actual conversation that had cleared and settled things for both of them—and opened up a tentative future that neither had expected.

So, in a way, Dori had been a catalyst since the beginning.

But Dwalin was sure that Dori’s own facet first shone for him in Rivendell.

After the mad wizard , wargs, orcs, rabbits, and the capture—and they had been captured, no matter what Gandalf and wee Master Baggins had claimed—by the least trustworthy race in all of Middle Earth, Dwalin was wound tight and unable to stand down, even after several days in a so-called safe haven.

The various escape strategies he’d devised with Thorin the first night hadn’t helped. The lack of overt aggression from the Elves hadn’t helped. Bathing naked in the fountain and breaking all the furniture in the common room hadn’t helped. Training Fíli and Kíli and sparring with anyone who would agree hadn’t helped. Waiting around for the right blasted kind of moon to read the blasted map _wasn’t helping_.

Tracking Nori and making him put back everything he’d liberated from their smug “hosts”—barring the venison and the books for Ori, of course—then shagging him senseless against the nearest decorative pillar until it creaked, before personally escorting him back to the room containing a safely sleeping Ori, had only helped until he’d gone to his own room and tried to let Balin’s breathing lull him to sleep.

It hadn’t. At all.

It was past midnight as Dwalin paced along the corridor, back and forth in front of the doors to the guest chambers, trying to look as if he was keeping a responsible watch instead of trying desperately to tire himself enough to shut himself _off._

Nothing was helping and if nothing continued to help, he was going to be less than useless once they left Rivendell and sleep became legitimately scarce.

Dwalin kept moving, kept marching, kept _thinking,_ until he heard a door open and an irritated voice say, “ _Master_ Dwalin, if you _can’t_ stop that incessant marching, would you _please_ have the decency to take off your boots?”

He turned and saw Dori standing there in a silky robe of agate colors, his mithril hair loose and flowing thickly over his rounded shoulders. His face was stern and disapproving and altogether stunning.

“Master Dwalin?” Dori asked.

Dwalin just stared at him, the weight of exhaustion and worry and anxiety and responsibility hitting him all at once . . . but not hard enough to knock him down.

“Oh,” Dori said, in a completely different voice. “Oh, dear. You’d better come in.”   He stepped aside.

Dwalin didn’t move. He couldn’t.

“Master Dwalin,” Dori said sharply, “Do as I _say_ , please.”

And he did.

Dori’s room was furnished like the others assigned to the company—a bed, a set of shelves, a small table and chair—but there were small touches here and there that made it look more comfortable and home-like: a teapot and cups on the table, a candle or two glowing warmly here and there, and a small rug on the floor by the bed. Nori might have appropriated it all but Dwalin thought that Dori had probably requested them from that prissy elf who was reluctantly responsible for the needs of Elrond’s unexpected guests.

Dori was a dwarf who liked things just so and wasn’t shy about arranging them.

“Off with your boots,” Dori said, and watched as Dwalin tugged them off, setting them neatly by the door. “Good. Set your weapons in the same corner, there. All of them, please.”

Dwalin hesitated.

“It’s all right, Master Dwalin,” Dori said in the calmest voice imaginable, as if he was talking about the weather. “I will see to the safety of our people until you are set right again.”

Dwalin remembered the stone table, the Troll limping from a shattered kneecap, and the Warg that had been put down with a single punch for daring to come too close to Ori. And he remembered that Dori had been the one who had tried to shove everyone behind him when the Elves had ridden down on them all.

There was no denying Dori’s strength, nor his willingness to use it on behalf of the company.

He pulled Grasper and Keeper from his back and placed them carefully where Dori wanted them.

A small part of Dwalin could not believe that he was making himself vulnerable without protest, but the rest was too busy disarming to care. With each knife and knuckleduster he set down, he felt lighter.

“Let someone else take up the burden for a while.” There was a soft clink and then another. Small sounds, safe sounds. “It’s your turn to rest.”

Dwalin moved his hands to unbuckle the harnesses that held his axes and hesitated, glancing at Dori.

“Those, too,” Dori said, in a voice warm with approval. He was holding a cup of tea as if this was all perfectly normal.

Dwalin couldn’t remember why it might not be.

Finally, he stood there without weapon or armor, hands at his sides, too tired to do anything but wait, too tightly wound to do anything but hope.

“Good, Master Dwalin,” Dori said. “You’re doing just fine. Come here.”

Dwalin stumbled toward the bed, but a strong hand stopped him and gently guided him down to the rug.

“There you go,” Dori said. “Hands where you’re comfortable. Spine straight, please. Good, that’s good.”

“What . . ?” Dwalin heard himself say. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to breathe. That’s all.”

“I can’t—I can’t just sit here and . . .”

“You can.” Dori said. “We’re safe as houses.”

Dwalin wanted to tell him that houses burned down all the time.

But Dori knew that.

“You’ve taken good care of us, Master Dwalin; it’s our turn to take the watch. The only thing you need to do right now is breathe.”

Dwalin wanted it to be true—he needed it to be. So, he breathed.

Something silky caressed his shoulder and a warm hand stroked his head. “You’re doing so well, Master Dwalin. So well."

He breathed.  Slow and deep and he closed his eyes because he felt like he was going to . . . but, no, not quite something was missing . . . and just as he felt his poor tired brain begin to wind up again because _this wasn't going to work either—_

—a strong hand grabbed what hair he had and yanked his head back to stare into a beautiful, implacable face. "Let go, Master Dwalin. Let. Go."

He took in a deep breath that was nearly a sob, leaned into that strong grip, and let it all go.

 

 

He didn’t remember anything else, until he woke the next morning in the room he shared with Balin, though his brother was gone.

A quick check assured him that his weapons were within their usual reach and his harnesses were hanging from their usual hook on the wall. And he was still wearing his shirt and trousers.

The only evidence that anything had happened at all was the feeling that he’d slept very well—and Nori, who was sitting at the end of his bed, looking at him with dark eyes and eating the last of an apple from one of his knives.

“What time is it?” Dwalin asked, stalling. He’d never lied to Nori, except by omission, and he wasn’t awake enough to know whether that would be the safest option or the worst possible thing he could do.

The thief tossed the core out of the window and wiped his knife but did not put it away.  “You’ve missed two breakfasts,” he said, pointing to a tray on the small table that looked as if it might have had breakfast items on it at one time.

Not the next morning, then. “I’ve been asleep a day and a half?”

“When Dori puts someone under, they stay put,” Nori said, examining the knife.

Dwalin froze.

“Especially when they haven’t slept in three nights.”

“Four,” Dwalin said, trying to fit an apology into the word.

Nori’s eyes widened. “Four.” The knife disappeared. “He’s a bit worried that he might have overstepped. You must have been in an awful state—he’s very careful about consent, my brother.”

“I was,” Dwalin said. “I didn’t mean to—“

Nori made a sharp gesture. “No. That’s not . . . I didn’t notice,” he said quietly. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Or I did, but I didn’t know what it meant. I should have _known.”_

And Dwalin realized that his lover wasn’t angry _at_ him, but worried _for_ him. And angry at himself.

Shame wasn’t a good look for Nori.

“I didn’t know either,” he said. “Are you . . . did you sleep?”

“Dori told me it was best if you woke up naturally, but you shouldn’t be alone when you did.” Nori’s smile was blurry. “He managed to convince Oin and your brother, but someone had to keep your noisier relatives away.”

It was clear that Nori, out of his own sense of responsibility, had refused to let anyone else stand guard.

Dwalin smiled and lifted his covers in invitation.

Nori exhaled, kicked off his boots, shrugged off his jacket, and crawled in beside him. He smelled like apples and spices and himself and Dwalin pulled him close and breathed deeply.

“Thank you for looking after me,” he said.

But his thief was already asleep.


	2. Knitted Hugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm completely chuffed by the reaction to this story so far! Thank you all so much for your kudos, comments, and general encouragement.
> 
> I've finally figured out a logical arrangement (by my standards, anyway) for the scenes I've already written for this story and what I need to do to tie it together. To celebrate, here's another chapter!
> 
> ____________________

_Dwalin knew he could be overprotective of those who were younger or less battle-hardened than he, and he made no apologies for it._

_What, after all, was a warrior_ for _?_

_He protected Fíli by teaching him everything he knew about weapons and training him black and blue. He protected Kíli with quiet approval of his choice of weapons and louder approval of his growing skills with them. He had protected Bilbo--at least at first--by urging him to return to his safe, peaceful life in the Shire and by not mining for the true reason behind Thorin’s inexplicable dislike of the hobbit._

_But he hadn’t had_ any idea _how to protect Ori, who was ten times smarter than he, half again as stubborn, strong enough to stand up to his older brothers, and as luminous as a moonstone . . . except by keeping his distance._

_Ori, though, had other ideas._

__________________

 

The escape from Rivendell hadn’t been overly dangerous, though Dwalin had been grateful he’d managed a few nights of steady sleep—thanks to Dori—before they’d been told about the Council. He didn’t think for a moment that they hadn’t attracted anyone’s notice, but they’d left before any orders had been given to stop them and it seemed that no order had been given to follow them.

He supposed they had Gandalf to thank for that, at least.

They were making good time, without any orc sign, and were only three day’s march from the Misty Mountains. If their luck held, they would have plenty of time to reach Erebor by Durin’s Day.

Dwalin lowered himself between the obliging roots of a large oak and leaned back to sharpen and oil his axes. Dori settled himself nearby with his sewing kit and an assortment of well-worn clothing. They exchanged smiles, but didn’t bother to break the comfortable silence.

It was strange how restful Dwalin found Dori’s company. He would have assumed a certain level of awkwardness between them--embarrassment on his part or presumptions on Dori’s . . . or perhaps the other way around. But there was none of that, or very little, anyway; Dori was extremely attractive, after all, and Dwalin had eyes.

But he would never do anything to hurt Nori, if he could possibly help it, and to his continued relief there was no tension between the brothers over Dwalin’s occasional visits to Dori. For all the outward rivalry and cutting remarks, Dwalin had caught frequent glimpses of how much the two eldest Ri brothers depended on each other.  Dori was Nori’s touchstone and Nori was Dori’s rock.

Dwalin would sooner cut off his own arm than ruin that.

Ori came over and sat on a fallen log midway between the older dwarrow and began making notes with his travelling quill. He finished quickly—not much had happened that day, except for an amiable argument between Bilbo and Bombur over seasoning dinner, which had become so routine everyone was taking it as a sign to dig out their bowls—and produced his knitting needles and latest project.

Dwalin applied his sharpening stone to Grasper and watched the young dwarf’s deft hands. He was idly curious about the amount of knitting wool Ori had apparently stashed about his small person. It seemed endless, but it had recently occurred to him that the scribe might actually be reknitting the things he was wearing, while he was wearing them.

This seemed practical enough to be reasonable, but Dwalin didn’t know enough about knitting to be sure and he hadn’t caught sight of any unraveling. Not that he gave Ori more than the occasional, natural glance; it seemed not only rude to stare, but dangerous, for several reasons.

The leaves above Dwalin rustled a bit and an acorn dropped into his lap. He examined it, smiled, and tucked it away. No squirrel would have carved that particular rune into his dinner, even if squirrels knew Khuzdul.

Across the way, Dori rolled his eyes, though his lips might have quirked a little, on one side.

For a few peaceful moments, it seemed to Dwalin that the four of them were the only dwarrow for miles.

But, of course, they weren’t.

It had been agreed after the incident with the Trolls that Fíli and Kíli would not be paired up for guard duty. Fíli and Thorin were walking the perimeter this evening and Bifur would be doing his intimidating best to keep Kíli focused while they stood second watch over the sleeping camp.

Unfortunately, separating Kíli from Fíli did not separate Kíli from his curiosity. And tonight, his curiosity seemed to be focused on Ori.

He appeared without warning and plopped himself down against the same log, near enough to Dwalin’s tree to be easily overheard.  “Can I read your book?”

“I’d rather you didn’t, your highness,” Ori said. “It’s just my own notes and some sketches.”

“I like your sketches. The one you did of Bilbo was just like him.” Kíli offered that wide, happy grin of his that could get him in and out of trouble in equal measure. “And please don’t call me your highness—I keep looking ‘round to see who you’re talking to.”

Ori glanced at Dori, who was examining something that was more hole than sock, and nodded. “I sketched an interesting a flower today.”

“A flower? Which one? What made it interesting?”

Ori’s lips tightened, as if he thought Kíli was making fun of him. Dwalin wanted to reassure him that this was Kíli’s way of making friends, but knew it was best to let them work it out themselves.

“One of the little red ones that grow flat in clumps,” he said. “Bilbo said it was red clover and could be used for all kinds of things, from feeding cattle to curing things. I thought if there was any growing around Erebor, Dori might want some for his teas or Oin could use it for healing draughts.”

Dori gave Ori a smile of approval.

“Oh.” Kíli thought about this. “Did he say what it tasted like? It looks like it should taste like rosehips.”

“You should probably ask _him_ ,” Ori said.

“He’s already asleep,” Kíli said. “I’ll ask Bifur later. It’ll give me a chance to work on my Iglishmek. I suppose you’re fluent in that, too?”

“Scribes record things in written languages,” Ori said. “The point of Iglishmek is that it isn’t one.”

Kíli grinned. “But I’ll bet you still know it, right? Balin does—he says it comes in handy in Libraries and dull meetings.”

Dwalin chuckled as Dori and Ori looked at him with the same doubting expression. He wondered if Nori was wearing it, too, up in his tree.

“It’s true,” he said. Balin was a lot less staid than most people thought—responsible to a fault, maybe, and equally tight with coin and contract, but there was nothing wrong with his sense of humor.

“He can be quite rude with them,” he added, trading the whetstone for his oil and cloth. “He made up a few of his own during that last mining dispute with the Firebeards. Thorin turned a lovely shade of purple trying not to laugh.”

Dori’s eyes went wide and scandalized and Ori snorted and covered his mouth with a hand. Kíli laughed so hard he fell over.

Now that Ori knew Kíli wasn’t making fun of him, he answered his questions more freely, and often in ways that reminded Dwalin that the scribe was actually a decade or so older than either prince.

“So,” Kíli said, after showing off the travelstone Dís had given him, “did you leave anyone back ho—I mean, behind?”

“My friend Eilífr,” Ori said, frowning. “She’s a scribe, like me. I wanted her to come with us, but His Majesty said dams couldn’t go for safety’s sake. I . . . I thought Dori would be staying to look after her, and Nori, too, but they signed up when I did.”

Dori shifted a little, a guilty expression on his face.

Dwalin exhaled. Of course someone like Ori would have a sweetheart. He didn’t know why he cared, except it was one more reason the young dwarf shouldn’t have come. Gloin and Bombur had wives, and children, too, but that was different.

Kíli threw a small stick into the fire. “Are you courting her?”

“Courting _Eilífr_?” Ori wrinkled his nose. “She’s _family._ Dori wanted to adopt her, after her father died, but she's . . . she wanted to stay in her Clan. She’s just as much our _namad_ without the formalities.” He pulled out more wool and his needles flashed. “And when we take back Erebor, she’ll come live with us. Maybe they’ll let us both work in the Library, if Smaug didn’t destroy it.”

“You can put a foot or two more Dwarfish iron up his jacksie if he did,” Kíli said, grinning.

“I’ll do worse than that,” Ori muttered. “Libraries are _important_.”

“Are you courting anyone else, then?” Kíli asked. “You probably have plenty of suitors.”

Dwalin tensed up for no reason he could name. Across from him, Dori seemed to do the same.

“Some,” Ori said, wrinkling his nose again. “Dori and Nori keep them from bothering me too much.” He didn’t seem upset about this. “Are you?”

“Me? No,” Kíli said, throwing a small stick into the fire. “No wonder, really. I mean, you’re lucky—you’re a proper dwarf, aren’t you. Everyone looks at me and thinks elf-blood. The only reason anyone would accept my gift is because I’m the Spare Heir.”

“I think you’re the lucky one,” Ori said, the honesty in his voice making up for the lack of tact. “I don’t _want_ to be courted. Or . . . or _seduced_. Though I don’t mind doing some things,” he added, in a mumble.

Kíli grinned. “If you’re offering, I’d be honored to accept.”

Dwalin scowled, though he didn’t know why. Kíli and Ori were close in age and it was none of his business if they shared bedrolls.

Across from him, Dori visibly held his tongue, possibly because nothing objectionable had happened but probably because Kíli was a prince. Though that wouldn’t hold him for long, should Kíli cross the line. There was a quiet rustling overhead and Dwalin wondered if Nori was scowling, too, or just examining his knife in that way he had that was so much worse.

It occurred to Dwalin that while Ori's choice of bedpartners might not be his business, it _was_ the duty of the House of Fundin to keep the royal line of Durin safe from their own stupidity and this young idiot obviously had no idea that he was within arm’s reach and a short drop of certain dismemberment if he didn’t tread very,  _very_ carefully.

“I’m not,” Ori was saying. “To anyone. But thank you, anyway.”

Kíli shrugged cheerfully. “No harm in asking, _Amad_ says, as long as you’re polite in the question and respectful of the answer.” He glanced at Dwalin and blinked, then shot a nervous glance at Dori. “I hope I was both?”

Ori smiled. “Yes.”

“Uncle’s craft-wed, too,” Kíli said, more softly. “But not stone-wed.”

Dori cleared his throat but, surprisingly, glanced at Dwalin, who shook his head in reassurance. If Kíli had asked directly or meant it as gossip, it would have been more than impolite, especially with others around, but Dwalin knew there was no maliciousness meant—quite the opposite.

And he wanted to know what Ori would say.

“Me, too,” Ori said. “But I have to feel comfortable, first. I don’t feel comfortable with just anyone.” He glanced up before Dwalin could drop his gaze.

Ori _blushed._

Dwalin froze for a heartbeat or two . . . but no more than that. The lad was no doubt embarrassed about being overheard.

“That explains the knitting,” Kíli said, reaching over and tugging the gray hood. “Like a soft hug all the time? And you can give them to people you like, without worrying about being misunderstood.”

Ori grinned and nodded. “And knitting keeps my fingers warm and flexible for writing,” he said.

“Like fletching arrows,” Kíli said, and the conversation easily turned to craft and knotwork.

Dori exhaled and gave Kíli a small, fond smile. Another acorn dropped in Dwalin’s lap, calling Kíli a decent sort, which was high praise from squirrels and thieves alike.

Dwalin hadn’t been surprised when Ori gave Kíli a pair of fingerless gloves the next day, though he did feel an unexpected and uncomfortable pang of jealousy.

But it was nothing compared to his confusion when the scarf appeared in his pack after he’d returned from scouting the perimeter of their campsite at the foot of the Misty Mountain trail.

There was no doubt who had made it or left it, or that it was meant for him---the stitches resembled the pattern on his leathers and it was in his favorite green--and how Ori had brought or found that much wool in the right color was almost as big a mystery as what Dwalin should do about it.

Ori was helping Bilbo gather firewood, so that was a bit of a reprieve--maybe an intentional one on the scribe’s part—so Dwalin stared at the scarf and tried to think. It was long and soft and beautifully made; more than good enough for a road-worked courting token, though of course that was a ridiculous thought and one that made him feel like a dirty-minded old dwarf.

He couldn’t possibly court Ori, even if Ori wanted to. Even if _he_ wanted to. Which he didn’t. He was in love with Ori’s brother and in . . . something else . . . with his other brother.  

That was enough Ri for anyone, surely.

Nori appeared at his side and quirked a braided eyebrow. “Good color for you,” he said, which could have meant anything or nothing.

Dwalin caught Dori’s attention and held up the scarf. Dori’s eyes widened, but then he smiled and gave Dwalin’s neck a pointed look.

When Dwalin still hesitated, Nori huffed impatiently. “He's not _courting_ you, you idiot.”

Oh. 

Apparently Kíli had been wrong--it was possible to mistake a knitted gift for something more.  He snorted at himself and wrapped the scarf around his neck.

It felt exactly like a hug.

At that moment, Ori came through the trees with Bilbo, their arms full of kindling. He dropped his armful and saw Dwalin, who smiled at him and signed his thanks in Iglishmek.

Ori _blushed._

Dwalin froze.

“Not _yet_ , anyway,” Nori said over his shoulder, as he strolled away to talk to Dori.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on these stories on a multitude of computers and am really beginning to regret all those accent-marked names.
> 
> In case it wasn't clear in context: Although in some stories, "craft-wed" means that a dwarf isn't interested in marriage, I'm borrowing the term from several terrific stories that use it to mean "asexual". I don't know if "stone-wed" is something I've borrowed or not (let me know if it is, please) but I'm using it here to mean "aromantic".


	3. Unacceptable Loss

_It had taken Dwalin time to see the shine of each Ri brother and it took even longer realize that all of their facets belonged—could belong—to the same jewel._

_But it wasn't long before it dawned on him that Nori's love for his brothers wasn't the only reason Dwalin was willing to lay down his life to protect them.  
_

_Possibly because there were so many opportunities along the way . . ._

_________________

 

If anything could take Dwalin’s mind off the problem (if problem it was) of Ori’s regard (if regard it was), the Misty Mountains managed nicely. Dwarrow were good with rock, but that was because they knew how treacherous it could be and most tried to _avoid_ traveling narrow, rain-slick paths of it over hundred-foot drops.

And that was before the giants began to fight.

The Company could do nothing against the rage and the impact of the boulders, except flatten themselves against the side of the mountain and move as quickly as they could in the direction they hoped meant safety.

But the path suddenly rose and fell at the same time, cracking in two and separating the Company, and Dwalin could hear the howls of despair even over the thunderous battle raging over and around—even over his own. 

But the earth righted itself as quickly as it had split and he could see Balin and Dori’s hair glinting with each flash of lightening and he had a grip on the back of Nori’s belt, trusting his thief’s sure feet to guide them both to the wider part of the ledge, where the rest huddled.

Except for Ori . . . who was leaning over the edge of the abyss with Bofur.

Without thinking, Dwalin let go of Nori and yanked Ori up and away, thrusting him into the unyielding safety of his brothers’ arms. He was about to do the same for Bofur when he saw that the behatted dwarf was trying desperately to keep Bilbo Baggins from falling.

Before Dwalin could move, someone shoved past him and a dark figure jumped down, scooped up the hobbit and swung both of them onto the path . . . or tried to.

Dwalin lunged and dragged his friend and king back from certain death.  “I’m glad we didn’t lose our burglar,” he said, grinning through the rain that streamed down his face.

Thorin, who had always masked worry with anger, snarled an insult that Dwalin knew showed how much he feared for the hobbit’s life.

Bilbo, though, clearly took it as it sounded, and went silent as they all inched their miserable, sodden way into the cave Fíli and Kíli had found.

“Thorin is a right idiot,” Nori muttered. 

“He’s as lost with emotions as he is finding his way above ground,” Dwalin agreed. “It runs in the Durin line.”

“Good thing you ain’t one of that lot,” sniffed the thief.  “It would have set you back decades.”

Dwalin had to concede the point.  Being cousin to the Royal line was handicap enough, some days.

They all bedded down in the blessed warmth of the dry cave, except for Bofur, who had volunteered for first watch, claiming with a shadow of his usual smile that he wouldn’t be able to close his eyes for hours anyway.

Dwalin felt much the same way, but left him to it; there would be little need for two guards tonight.

Balin had already put his bedroll down near Thorin’s and was snoring softly. Dwalin hesitated for only a moment before trudging to the place where Dori was shaking out bedrolls and grumbling at the state of them.

Dwalin sat up against the wall of the cave, not bothering to remove weapons or boots, and watched as Nori nudged an exhausted Ori onto the driest blankets. Nori noticed him, rolled his eyes, and began to nudge him into place as well, until Ori was cuddled between them, and Dori was warm against Dwalin’s back.

Ori was asleep before they’d finished arranging themselves around him, and a short while later, Nori’s hand went lax in Dwalin’s.

Dwalin was tired beyond sleeping and the memory of Ori leaning over the cliff and visions of what could have happened would not leave him. He breathed into Ori’s hair and clung to the warmth of Nori’s hand until his leftover energy turned to another form of tension and he was helpless to stop his physical reaction to having both (beloved) beautiful dwarrow in his arms.

He squirmed away, ashamed and uncomfortable and wanting nothing quite so much as to surge forward and be damned—until Dori sighed, gripped the back of his neck, and whispered in his ear an order to _be still._ He did so and was rewarded by murmurs of matter-of-fact forgiveness and praise for his honorable intentions under trying circumstances.

Dori’s words didn’t—couldn’t _possibly_ —soften his situation, but did much to soothe his fears and feelings so that his brain, at least, could relax, and from there, his body eventually followed.

He was nearly asleep when his slow-blinking eyes caught a figure moving in the inadequate light of the single burning torch Thorin had allowed. The figure stepped deftly and silently around the sleeping dwarrow, shouldering a small pack.

It looked as if Bilbo Baggins had had enough of questing—or perhaps enough of Thorin.

Dwalin couldn’t blame him—in fact, he wished him well and hoped that he would find his way back to his safe little burrow.

But then a blue glow filled the cave and the ground disappeared underneath them.

 

###

The one shining moment in the goblin’s lair was when Dwalin had handed Ori the hammer and the young dwarf had wielded it with his oldest brother’s strength and his middle brother’s cunning and his own determined will.

The rest was mud and filth and blood and running.

And after they had escaped, after Bilbo had been found—or, as he always said afterward, had found himself, thank you—and Thorin had seemed to be on the cusp of finally accepting what the rest of the Company had known about their burglar since the Trolls, there was more running.

And orcs and wargs and trees and fire.

And _Azog._

 

###

 

Dwalin watched Thorin Oakenshield march to his death and was torn for the first time between duty and keeping his loved ones safe.

Until now, it had always been the same thing.

“Go!” Nori hollered. ‘You’re too heavy!” and he launched himself at the bough holding Dori, who was gripping Ori with all the strength he had.

Dwalin, who knew better than to hesitate when Nori spoke in _that_ voice, swung down and ran to Thorin, telling himself that Dori would never let go of Ori and Nori would move Middle Earth itself to keep them both from falling.

Dwalin slaughtered one, two, three orcs, and finally stood beside Bilbo Baggins to face the Pale Orc, Thorin Oakenshield still and unmoving on the ground behind them, only a small hobbit and himself between the hope of their people and annihilation.

Until he heard the almighty C-R-A-A-A-C-K behind them and Azog’s mouth stretched wide in an unholy grin. Dwalin and Bilbo both took a quick look and saw the tree fall over the precipice, taking all who clung to its branches with it.

Dwalin’s heart echoed the sound of the truck splitting.

The roar that escaped his throat hurt his own ears as he snapped back around, vowing that when he met his brother and beloved (beloveds) in Mahal’s Halls, he would tell that he had sent their murderer to the Void before he fell.

But his cry came back to him, louder and higher, a wild echo, and Bilbo cried, “Look!”

Talons picked him up and tossed him high, and suddenly there was a warm, solid weight underneath him, carrying him away as he clutched at the feathers and took hope at each cry from the other Eagles that they might be carrying (the pieces of his heart) his fellows to safety.

 

###

 

At the carrock, he clung to Balin like the smaller dwarfling he once had been, then looked frantically around for the rest of the Company.

Fíli and Kíli were hovering over Oin as he tended to Thorin and Bilbo Baggins, who was sitting up but looked as wrung out as one of the handkerchiefs he didn’t have.   Bombur and Bofur were tending to Bifur’s axe, while Bifur hollered thanks and blessings to the Eagles in ancient Khuzdul, laughing heartily as one circled overhead and let out soft cries.

Dwalin’s heart stopped—then started again as he caught sight of a small huddle of dwarfs across the clearing.

“I’ll just see to Mr. Baggins,” Balin said softly, squeezing his arms.

Dwalin nodded, already moving, though he spared a fond glance at the hobbit as he passed. Gandalf had been right about him.

“Are you all right?” he asked, taking in Ori’s bruised face, the splinters embedded in Dori’s swollen forearms, and the way Nori had twisted one white-knuckled fist in his older brother’s tunic and the other in his younger brothers’ hood.

Nori stared at Dwalin and jumped into his arms, only letting go of his brothers at the last possible second. Dwalin held him and stroked his tangled hair, willing to do so for as long as his thief would let him.

After a moment, he realized that Ori was standing very close, one hand around Nori’s ankle, and he hooked a hand around the ruffled head and reeled him in until the young dwarf had pressed himself against Dwalin’s side. Dori was fussing and brushing them all off and Dwalin leaned forward and the older dwarf stilled so they could press their foreheads together for a long, perfect moment.

“Thank Mahal you’re all right,” he breathed to each and all of them. “Thank Mahal.”

 


End file.
